


Over The Top

by prosfan



Series: A Captain's Tale [1]
Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26796688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosfan/pseuds/prosfan
Summary: Not how he imagined his war would end.
Series: A Captain's Tale [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967122
Comments: 10
Kudos: 71





	Over The Top

**Author's Note:**

> We don't know how The Captain died, and he has no obvious signs of injury, so here's my take.

There was mud everywhere. 

More than he’d ever seen in his eighteen years. Mixed with the blood and the fear of one thousand men, it was easy to forget that there was any unspoiled ground left in the world. He stood by the ladder, waiting to go ‘over the top’. Waiting for the whistle. The men around him shifted uncomfortably, echoing his own deep unease. Private Godwin to his left, was rubbing his rosary between his fingers and silently parting his lips in prayer. Private Samuels, two men down, was patting the barrel of his rifle, as if encouraging it to do a good job. He could hear that tattoo of Samuels’ fingers on the wood, everything else had stopped. No gunfire, no artillery. That would come when they were running across No Man’s Land. He’d made it back twice now, his odds were shortening.

Then silence was shattered, with three simple words. 

“GAS! GAS! GAS!”

One second too late, that was all it took. He got his gas mask on, but not before the evil stuff had got into his lungs. Not too much, but enough that he was bent double, coughing and retching as his lungs screamed for air. Rough hands dragged him backwards as the men surged forwards, heading up the ladders. He hadn’t even heard the whistle blow.

“Hold on, son,” His sergeant’s masked face swam in front of his vision. He tried to talk, to apologise for not going over the top with the others, but the senior man stopped him. “No, keep that mask on laddie, you don’t want another dose.” 

The next thing he knew, he was loaded onto the back of a truck full of wounded men, and heading off to a field hospital.

\--------------------------------------

There were soldiers everywhere. 

The old manor house was playing host to what felt like an entire regiment of soldiers. Each room had men feverishly working away on some new tactic to beat the Germans. He knocked on the door smartly, taking as a deep a breath as he could, waiting for permission to enter.

“Come in.” He walked in and the large man behind the desk stood up. “Ah, Captain, good to see you. You’ve seen the brief I assume?” His hand was pumped vigorously and he couldn’t help but grin at his superior.

“Yes sir. I’m excited to get started. Can’t wait to put myself to good use.” He coughed a little, a hangover from the gas attack that had put an end to the Great War for him, nearly twenty years before. He might not be fit enough to serve on the lines with the men in this new war, but he’s proved himself excellent at command and motivation, and a role had been found for him at Button House. 

“Good man. There are a few officers assigned to you, Martins, Havers and McCullen are at your disposal.” He was handed a thick manilla file, and he tucked his swagger stick under his arm to allow himself a proper grip as he read the simple typeface on the front.

_Operation William_

\--------------------------------------

There were boxes everywhere.

They’d run out of men, it’d been that simple. They needed more soldiers and anyone able to go to France, was sent to do so. The powers that be had decided he was fit enough to be of use. Not in a full on combat role, even the army medics couldn’t convince anyone that his lung capacity would be up to snuff for the fighting going on in the front lines. No, they had him in logistics. A bally impossible job, trying to keep the men supplied with ammo, food, kit, and care parcels. All while France was being bombed to shit, to coin phrase from the men. He was glad to see action of sorts, to know that he was able to help again. He’d hear the dull thud of the artillery and it would bring back memories of the trenches, still as fresh as the day he was there. He marvelled at the tanks that rolled through the town, heading off to join the fight. They’d never had anything like that in the first war.

The winter was playing havoc with his lungs, the damage being exacerbated by the cold. He knew some of the men were aware of his service history and none of them ever mentioned the coughing, or the almost constant clearing of his throat. The war had gone on long enough now that they all had their own friends, forever marked by combat. He would never complain, after all, the foot soldiers had it so much worse than him, but even simple things were tiring him out in a way that made him feel sixty seven, rather than the forty seven that he actually was. Stiff upper lip, and a little more coughing that usual, and he’d be alright. He was convinced it was going to be a bomb that got him in the end anyway, they were getting closer and closer. 

Two weeks later, a private had found him hunched over, gasping for breath as his lungs tried to drown themselves. Already weakened by the gas, it had left him wide open for infection and he’d been too busy trying to get supplies to the men, to admit to himself that he was ill.

Pneumonia, had been the doctors diagnosis, and he was promptly sent back to Blighty to recuperate. Funny how things had come full circle. He’d over heard the pilots talking. They’d commandeered a load of country estates as army hospitals. He was going back to Button House. 

\--------------------------------------

There were six unfamiliar faces staring at him. 

“I say, what are you doing here? This is MOD property, you can’t be here. And none of that is regulation uniform.” Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. How had six people in fancy dress got into the grounds undetected? A whole mansion of soldiers, and no one had stopped them. Even in a hospital, there were some men that would be well enough to at least challenge one intruder, if not six.

Then it hit him. He wasn’t tired. He’d spent a week struggling to take a breath, struggling to do anything more than read in bed and manage small meals. Everything had tired him out, much to his own frustration. He’d started feeling a little better today, well enough to take a walk in the gardens. And then, there had been a sharp stabbing feeling when he breathed in, and a dizziness that all but incapacitated him. Then breathing had become incredibly difficult, as if the gas had caught up with him at last. But now he was standing up straight, and the heaviness in his limbs had dissapeared, and as there was no rational reason for that, he doubted there was a good one either. 

“Good Lord,” he muttered, as he slowly turned around, to see his body lying on the floor, on his side, where he’d been trying to ease his breathing. “Good lord, I’m dead aren’t I?”

“Afraid so mate.” He turned back to see...a head being held by a smiling woman. That would be something that would have to be addressed later, his apparent death was quite enough to be getting on with. 

“Oh but its not so bad,” The smiling woman said. “We can all be friends now. I’m Kitty!” There was a murmur of assent from the gathered, well The Captain assumed they must be ghosts. Fellow ghosts, he corrected himself, and almost chuckled at the absurdity of his predicament. Standing on a lawn with what looked like a caveman, a peasant girl, a noble woman, a matriarch, a regency dandy and of course, a head.

He heard a shout, and then a second more frantic one, and people started to run down the lawn towards them. He waved at them, trying to get them to hurry up before realising that he couldn’t be seen. 

The caveman came over to him, and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. 

“Come in house. Not want see this. Only make sad.” He couldn’t help but agree. Some men had turned him over and were about to start chest compressions. He’d seen that enough times in life, had performed it himself on countless occasions. He had no desire to see it done to his own body. 

“Right yes. Well, lead on men. And women.” He cleared his throat. It seemed he still felt the need to do that, despite the fact he no longer had lungs. Old habits died hard he supposed.  
They set off a few steps a head of him and he took one last look around at himself, lifeless on the grass. He sighed and turned back to the ragtag bunch in front of him, who seemed to be arguing about who had permission to walk on the lawn. His new forever. Taking a deep breath, he swung his swagger stick under his arm and stood briefly to attention.

“Well then,” He muttered to himself in an attempt at reassurance. “Over the top.”


End file.
